Meister's Journey: Chapter 8: A white man's travel to an Indian Wedding

On the bumpy road

I had spent one week in Haidakhan so far and already was I invited to a traditional Indian wedding. The priest of another Babaji Ashram invited us to the wedding of his son. The wedding was held in the next biggest town called Haldwani. Still it took around two hours to get there. It was a winding road that had to be travelled. The route was notorious for its bumpy surface and the many turns which would often lead to nausea even among the locals. So I decided not to eat beforehand to reduce the chances of an upset stomach. Right before our departure my tummy rumbled.

 I hoped it was just because I was hungry.

 I turned out to be wrong. 

We drove in a jeep and soon enough some Indians simply hopped on the car. I mean ON the car, not IN the car. Fuck safety measures. That‘s a privilege which doesn‘t exist in India. My belly made more and more disturbing noises. I tried to distract myself by the introductions of the other present Asharam visitors in the jeep. 

There was Michelle. And irish woman with a boyish look who was the coordinator and my first point of reference. There would always be something to talk and laugh about whenever she was around. She knew no taboos. Just the way I liked it. She told me that she was going to leave for Sri Lanka pretty soon.   

Jyothi was a swiss woman who had been working as a teacher. Jyothi (it means ‚light‘ in Hindi) wasn‘t actually her real name. However one day in India she decided that it would be the right name for her. That one time a stranger called her ‚Jyothi‘ even before she could introduce herself with her spiritual name. Ever since that moment she was completely sure that it was the right name for her.  

I had the impression that she constantly had the feeling of missing out on stuff. So many places she desired to go to, so many courses she desired to attend. At first I perceived her as rather restless and therefore the opposite of what I needed. She would constantly talk about books that inspired her. I thought that I didn‘t need to read anymore to make the crucial progress on my journey. I only came to Haidakhan to meditate since I was sure that it would only require enough introspection from my part to figure out what I truly wanted. However soon enough she had infected me with the desire to gather knowledge from books again and in retrospect I thank her for that. 

Anoushka though originally from Hungary (at least I think so) was a true cosmopolitan to me. This beautiful woman ,in her 30ies I guess, embodied the principles of the Babaji Ashram. To her everyone was family and everyone was to be treated as such. Just like Babaji himself she didn‘t hesitate a bit to welcome even violent creatures like Man Singh or aggressive drunks with nothing but love and compassion. However she seemed out of balance. She struck me as someone who‘s mind was constantly running, no moment to rest and no moment to take a deep breath. She couldn‘t hide a certain inner restlessness which at times freaked me out. I realized that you only discover parts of someone else‘s personality that already exist within yourself. So in the end she was nothing but a mirror of MY inner restlessness.   

And then there was Mandy. If only more of us were like her. She had the function of a Guru to me in a sense that she was the living proof of what is possible in life if you only follow your heart. After finishing her bachelor degree in Psychology at a university in her native country New Zealand she decided to leave Oceania and move to Africa to make the world a better place. It was quite a surprise to her to see so many white people walking around when she arrived there until she realized that Croatia was in Europe and not in Africa. Facepalm for Europeans, easily forgivable misunderstanding for New Zealanders. However this hilarious anecdote exemplifies Mandy‘s naiveté on one hand and on the other hand her courage and her uncompromising will to literally go the distance to make a change in favor of whatever you believe to be right. She moved to Europe without a concrete plan just with the pure belief that everything would turn out right. And that‘s what happened. Except for one night when she slept at a train station she always found a place to stay, didn‘t just find friends but also exciting jobs as a teacher and social worker in the broader sense. Such loving people like Mandy however tend to forget to nurture themselves. She worked at a refugee camp on a greek island for one month before she came to India. In that time she learned a valuable lesson: You cannot dedicate your life to the helping of others 24/7 and not thinking about your own well-being. At a certain point she was burnt out and couldn‘t handle the seemingly endless masses of refugees anymore entering the island and departing again shortly after, leaving nothing but a sour aftertaste of utter powerlessness in the face of such a human tragedy as the syrian refugee crisis.

A tumultuous arrival   

Being confronted with the aforementioned biographies offered me enough distraction from the inevitable intestinal desastre that was about to come until we arrived at the Babaji Ashram in Haldwani (Very often mixed up with similarly sounding village Haidakhan where I usually stayed). 

I stormed outside the car asked our guide where the next bathroom was and then ran into the direction where he pointed at. 

Was I able to keep my anus shut or would I shit my pants? I guessed 50-50. 

I was especially pessimistic when I thought about the usual moronic behaviour of my body to immediately relax as soon as a toilet was in sight. Does this sound to the slightest familiar to you? I experienced it plenty of times myself. I felt all fine, my bladder felt full but I seemed far away from an emergency. Until you put the key in the lock, turn it around and open the door to your familiar appartment. Suddenly you feel like a three-year old who‘s hardly capable of controling his bladder and realize that it‘s only a matter of seconds til you have to release what has to be released. And you run. 

I had made it to the toilet and hesitated for a moment in the face of the following revelation: I saw a room with one hole and splatters of excrements not just all over the floor but even on the walls. Countless flies didn‘t quite turn my underwhelming first impression into a delight. At least I perceived a tap with a bucket next to it. 

All I needed. 

I pulled my Indian skirt up, my pants down and released the toxic liquid excrements into the squat toilet. What a relief. I made it. I seriously didn‘t think I would and I thanked Babaji for averting the worst.

It‘s amazing how comfortable the squat position can be in a situation like this. None of the filthy things that were around me mattered, I was simply happy that I was able to do my business in time.   

Several minutes passed, I looked at the bucket next to me to wash me.   

It was empty.   

A good thing there was a tap.   

No water… 

Holy shit… 

„I cannot pull my pants up as long as I haven‘t washed the important parts“ I thought. 

I didn‘t have to figure out a plan, an angel saved me.   

Jyothi was there and asked me if I was alright. I said I was and gave her the the bucket still holding the squat position. „I got no water though, can you get me some?“ 

I had quite some experience using a water bucket as an ass-wipe-substitute so one water bucket was more than enough to do the trick. At that moment I was more than happy to fulfill my basic needs. However in retrospect I have to say: What a horrendous view in that toilet. Even Michelle who had spent a decade pretty much living in India admitted that it was the worst toilet she had ever seen.
 

The wedding

Then we finally arrived at the wedding. I was happy but, unsurprisingly, pooped out.   

Apparently we were at the groom's family's house. It was rather spacious, it even had to stories. I witnessed the preparation rituals for the groom. He truly was the prince of the event. He stuck out in the way he was dressed and his relatives sat around him singing songs.

As the only white people we attracted a lot of attention. One Indian after another asked us to take a picture with them. I didn‘t know any of them. Nevertheless I was happy to put a smile on their faces with my mere presence. It reminded me of the time I worked with some women who won a national beauty pageant that consequently turned them into well-known celebrities. Random strangers would get excited just seeing them and became the most joyful and grateful specimens after taking a picture with them. Why? Because they benefited of the genetic coincidence of being born with an extraordinarily symmetric face. I had the priviledge to be born with an extrordinarily pale face. However, in India reason enough to make a lot of people happy. 

There was a band playing and the locals encouraged me and the other whities from the Ashram to dance with them. Some even took some money out and wavered it around my head. I guess some kind of lucky charm ritual. I didn‘t have a lot of energy, so I decided to sit down. Drinking alcohol in India is really not a common thing. To quite a large extend it‘s even frowned upon. So you hardly ever see a drunk Indian. But if you do, they are pretty darn intoxicated. I was lucky enough to have one of them sitting next to me. The old man just wouldn‘t stop talking. I already had enough difficulty to understand a sober, well articulated Indian, so not a chance to understand what the blathering drunk next to me was saying. The only appropriate reaction in a situation like this: the good old smiling and nodding, hoping he would find someone else to talk to or he would pass out preferably sooner than later. I was safed by the car that took us to an Ashram nearby where we had the chance to eat something. I felt weak but ready to confront with indian food again. And it was delicious! Hey, what do you expect at a wedding?!

Beggar's dilemma 

On the way back to our beloved secluded Ashram we stopped at the market place in the town of Haldwani. There I got a first climpse at the „real India“. I specifically chose the secluded Babaji Ashram to avoid the loud, chaotic and dirty side of the country. But there was no escaping it. As soon as we pulled over there were children approaching us begging for money or other goods. It‘s hard to simply walk pass them. First of all, they were completely covered in dust, their clothes were dirty and second they were extremely persistent. The problem is: begging is their business. So as soon as I gave them a banana they wanted to have another one. It wasn‘t enough: After receiving oranges and some nuts they still asked for money. And – needless to say – the money they received didn‘t seem to satisfy them either. It reminded me of what I read in a book about Babaji‘s speeches. He urged the visitors of the Ashram not to give out things for free. It would only create more expectations. I was torn. On one hand it seems only human to give to the less fortunate ones. On the other hand, am I not even contributing to their misery by giving them things for free? They are rewarded for not providing any kind of service. It‘s completely one-sided. And a successful beggar will consequently remain a beggar and will keep on living off of others. He has no incentive whatsoever to produce anything of value to others and therefore has no value to others. But don‘t we all want to have a function in society? Don‘t we want to be appreciated? Wouldn‘t it be henceforth more beneficiary in the long run to boycott beggars? However I turned it, I couldn‘t make sense of it all. I want to give as much as I can, but to throw it down a bottomless pit? By donating to beggars aren‘t I contributing to their disempowerment? We finally got away from the beggars and reached an Internet café. It‘s hilarious to observe some businesses in India. I couldn‘t tell who was working there and who was using the internet as a costumer. They all didn‘t seem to be interested in the new costumers entering the shop. On most of the computers the internet connection couldn‘t even be established.   

While I waited for the others to finish writing their e-mails or to finally resign in their encounter to establish an internet connection a guy approached me from the outside and he showed me his cobra. I am not talking metaphorically. He really had a cobra. The girls were scared of course, I was more fascinated. Quickly one of the Indians chased the cobra guy away. In some way I thought it was a pity. There was at least someone who provided some kind of a tourist attraction to deserve a buck or two. 

Til this day I am still trying to figure out what „STD“ stood for. It cracked me up, that‘s for sure. The idea of selling STD‘s. Jeeeeeee… what a business idea! 

Driving back to our secluded Ashram I observed the streets of Haldwani. It really upset me. So much poverty everywhere, people living on the streets in their own dirt. Meanwhile I saw these huge advertisement banners for the newest Nike sports bra promoted by some Bollywood beauty right next to them. How fucked up is this? There was this mix of sadness, frustration and anger combined with the feeling of powerlessness. I really hoped that Babaji could help me to make sense of all of this...